it's a Monday night and you're rollerblading down neighborhood streets with your best friend. the sprinklers are on and the street lamps light up your dark brown eyes you've hated since you can remember. there's eighteen days left of Senior year and you just figured shit out. and that's okay. and maybe it's taken you the past three years to figure out that you aren't compatible with football players. that he's been there the whole time. that you won't find him under the Friday night lights. the Friday night lights that blared your vision. and that's okay. you waited eighteen days before graduation to dust off your rollerblades. but they were in the damn garage the whole time. you're almost to the end of the street and now your breaks are broken and you're a little too far away from Featherbed Lane. and the sun isn't slowing down for you to make it home before dark. and it feels really shitty. because you forgot how much you liked rollerblading. and painting with crayola watercolor sets with the contaminated yellow. and having a low key crush on the class clown. maybe it took you those three years to come to a higher, better understanding of the 2006 you. the one with the dark brown eyes that someone might love someday. the kid that was there the whole time. and still is, and will be. even if she was the yellow tainted by winters that lasted much too far into March and dropped AP classes. but you look ahead and although the end of the street is unfamiliar, there isn't a glaring rhombus screaming 'dead end' in your face. there are untraveled avenues and you realize you've got your old Crayola paint set and a little bit of understanding in your backpack.
